


in my heart, and in my head

by sachiers



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pining, Prison, Prison fluff, Protectiveness, Shameless Season 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21597838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sachiers/pseuds/sachiers
Summary: Ian gets out of prison first.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 12
Kudos: 92





	in my heart, and in my head

**Author's Note:**

> this one is dedicated to everyone who showed so much excitement for the little snippets of my writing that i posted on twitter, everyone who liked them, and everyone who was so incredibly encouraging—you know who you are, and i appreciate you the most. 🤍

Ian really fucking missed Mickey.

It wasn’t as if that came as a huge surprise to him; of course he had known that he would miss him, but the way he did, the _intensity_ of it—the “pining”, as Lip had called it, and that Ian had answered with a flip of his middle finger, not deigning his stupid brother’s comment with a verbal response—yeah, _that_ he had not expected.

And most definitely not after mere hours—shit, who was he kidding, less than a _few minutes_ —of being separated from him.

There really wasn’t any other word in the world that could more accurately describe the pang in his chest that he’d felt as soon as he’d gotten in the car with Lip and they had driven off, than an all-encompassing, profound sense of _loss_.

He would deny it, if anyone ever asked, but he’d been dangerously close to simply breaking down in tears at the mere thought of leaving Mickey behind, even while he’d still been in prison—several times.

When they’d finally had to say goodbye to each other, Ian had been helpless to do much of anything other than clutch at Mickey like the lifeline he was to him, and to stop himself from bursting into tears right then and there, his stomach churning with the devastating reality finally hitting him with full force—that he had no idea when he would be able to see him again; be able to touch him, embrace him, _be_ with him.

Lip would without doubt make fun of him, if he ever tried to explain his feelings to him, but then again, Ian felt—without any intention of trivializing other people’s relationships—that the way in which his heart and soul were tethered to Mickey’s, and vice versa, was something rare, and unique, something not many people had ever, or would ever, experience in their lives.

The way they always came back to each other, regardless of time, or distance.

Ian had always been a romantic, had always believed in soulmates, but if someone had told him back when he’d first fallen in love with the concept, without much of a real life reference to tie it to, that he would one day experience what finding his would actually feel like—what he felt for Mickey, it felt more epic than anything he could ever have imagined; it transcended mere words.

Even the word soulmate felt too cheap for what Mickey was to him.

Cheesy as it sounded, and despite the fact that Ian was still uncertain about what his future would hold for him: he knew with certainty that Mickey and his had always been meant to be intertwined.

As they’d made their way through the morning traffic, Lip had caught him up on everything that he’d missed during his time in prison that hadn’t fit into their conversations during his visits, but all his words had reached Ian through a cloud of haze, as he’d fought his body’s instinct to jump out of the car and run back to where he belonged, whom he belonged _with_.

It’d felt as if an invisible string that was connecting him to Mickey was being pulled taut with every mile he left behind him, making his lungs and eyes constrict uncomfortably, making him feel light-headed, and nauseous, and turning even the simple act of breathing into something … taxing.

Only a day had passed since he’d last seen Mickey, but Ian was so keenly aware of his absence, that it felt as if something vital and precious had been taken away from him overnight, like an arm, or a leg, and had left him not quite knowing how to properly function without it.

He kept finding himself wanting to tell Mickey something, and turning around to do so, only to realize that Mickey … wasn’t there.

Lying in bed now— _in Mickey and his bed_ , he corrected himself—eyes closed, he imagined Mickey’s warm body next to him. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost hear Mickey’s slow, steady breathing, imagine the rise and fall of his chest beneath his hand that he had placed right above his heart.

Ian breathed in deeply, his imagination transgressing time and distance, as his nose filled with a smell that his brain registered as Mickey … as home.

He missed the feeling of Mickey in his arms. He missed curling up against him after lights out at night, or on slow mornings, when he would wake up much earlier than he had to, just for those few extra minutes; to feel Mickey’s body sinking into his, their fingers intertwining, the little sigh that escaped Mickey’s lips when he smiled happily, the way he relaxed in his arms—he even missed the little snores that had annoyed him at one point.

He missed hearing his voice; the little rasp that would be most prominent after Mickey had just woken up, and that was inexplicably attractive to Ian, the way his talking would speed up when he got emotional (or rather, annoyed), the way he could hear Mickey’s smile in his words, when he was teasing him.

He even missed bickering with Mickey, missed hearing him add the word “bitch”, if he was particularly pissed at him, as if it was an insult—which it undoubtedly was, but made Ian’s heart flutter in his chest anyway, because he always heard the unspoken _his_ bitch, and because he knew that only Mickey alone was allowed to call him that word, anyway.

Others who didn’t, had very quickly learned that on their first day in prison, when one of the inmates had pushed Ian out of the lunch line with a muttered “bitch” under his breath, and had found himself shoved up against a table, a fork pushed against the base of his throat, seconds later.

“You wanna fucking fucking die?” Mickey had growled into his ear. The other inmate—Joe? Jack?—had quickly slunk away, tail between his legs.

Lesson fucking learned.

Unsurprisingly, Ian had found himself daydreaming about everything they’d experienced in prison together, as soon as he’d arrived at home, not having much to do on his first day of freedom (though he was pretty sure he would have been daydreaming about it, anyway, even if he’d been busy); the good, the bad, their monotonous everyday tasks like brushing their teeth, and showering, how they had gotten used to the other person’s habits, and moved in synchronicity by the end of their first week …

As he had tried to get used to going through the motions of the day outside of prison, Ian had also found himself hit with the realization that he had gotten so used to, and even come to rely on, Mickey always being _there_ , a few feet away from him, or in a different room at the most, but always knowing that he wasn’t too far, and Ian could always reach him, if he needed to, that it was strange to be doing things alone now.

He’d actually come to rely on merely having to turn his head to find Mickey in his vision, an ever existent presence that both comforted him, and made him feel immeasurably safe. Just looking at Mickey, seeing all the little micro expressions flash through his face, the curl of his lips, the upticks of his eyebrows, watching him move around … it had made him feel at home.

Feeling at home in prison—what a joke. Lip would really be having a fucking field day, if he were able to see into Ian’s head.

Of course, everything had eventually turned to shit in prison, and every little thing either of the two of them had done had set the other person off, but even then, Mickey and he had both known that they were going to pull through, in the end.

And while finding themselves with a set date of their separation, and not knowing when they’d get to be together again, had quickly resolved those “goddamn prison husbands bullshit arguments” as their warden had so eloquently put it—now, with miles and miles, and walls, and a different kind of immeasurable distance between them, it put things into perspective yet again.

Instead of thinking about how much he loved Mickey, wanted to be with him, wanted to enjoy what was left of their time in prison together, how much he was going to miss him, and how he was so fucking lucky that Mickey had come back to him yet again, Ian found himself thinking about their future more and more—and with it, their past.

Of the things he’d buried in the back of his mind for so long, things that still kept him up at night whenever they resurfaced, and had him regretting, hating, wishing … wishing he could go back, and do everything differently.

Wishing he could make Mickey see, and feel, and _know_ how much he had meant to him then, contrary to so many of his actions, how much he meant to him now, more than ever—anything to diminish the slivers of doubt that he hadn’t realized existed, and had burrowed themselves into Mickey’s mind and heart.

Looking back, he felt stupid for not having realized earlier that no matter the fact that Mickey had gotten himself tossed back into prison for him, and no matter the fact that Mickey loved him with a love that was unconditional, he was bound to have doubts, when it came to the question of Ian being equally committed towards him.

He just—he wanted so desperately for Mickey to be able to fully trust him again, without the slightest second of hesitation. Wanted him to know that Ian considered himself the stupidest fucking lucky person in the entire universe for being loved by him, for having Mickey _choose_ to love _him_.

He opened his eyes, blinking once, twice, three times.

He’d forgotten to close the blinds yesterday, and the early morning sun was bathing the room in soft pink and white tones, as he made a vow to himself.

Everything would be different this time.

Mickey would get out of prison, and they would finally be in a place where they could be with each other, no outside forces working against them, no homophobic deadbeat dad around, Ian’s meds stabilized, their feelings out in the open—no, he was never going to let himself let Mickey slip through his fingers ever again.

He was going to appreciate every single second they spent together, and he was going to make sure that Mickey knew how much Ian loved him, know it deep in his heart, make sure Mickey would never experience any heartbreak in his life ever again.

Ian turned to lie on his side, and reached under the pillow next to his, fingers brushing against the soft fabric of a little square-shaped box.

They weren’t there, just yet.

There were a lot of things still unspoken between them, a lot of things that needed fixing, a lot of things _Ian_ needed to fix, and a lot of things they needed to rediscover about each other, before they were.

His hand closed around the box, and he cradled it to his chest carefully, before he closed his eyes again, smiling softly into his pillow, and feeling his heart calm, as he drifted off to sleep again.

There weren’t there, just yet.

But soon.


End file.
